Streaming Universe

"You're in such a wicked mood. What's happened to you anyway? You had so much promise when you were younger and we expected much, much more from you. Didn't we Claudia? Genome, did your mom drop you on your head as a child?"

Claudia didn't look up from her phone, but she did snicker, and not in a flattering way.

The snarky comment came from Lupe, but you probably guessed that. I'd come to Native Grounds this Friday morning needing a quick pick-me-up but found Lupe here instead. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. She may offer only a half-dose of whatever it is she brings to the table, but she's always there for me. Something to be said for that.

"My mother did drop me on my head as a child," I said, "and it's not funny. Think what might have happened."

"That's what I'm thinking of, and I'm convinced that whatever might have happened did happen."

"Oh, shut up," I said but with the velvet glove because I didn't really want to offend. "Let me tell you why I'm so bent."

"Do," she said. 

"I recently went to Ocean Isle, to the memorial sand dunes, to give the Universe a piece of my mind."

"The memorial sand dunes," Lupe explained for Claudia, "is what he calls the spot on the beach where he talks to the Universe and all the souls who've passed through the veil."

I waited patiently for Claudia's response. She first glanced in my direction and then at Lupe. She offered a sort of eyebrow-lifting hint of a shrug and then went back to the phone.

"You, stooge," Lupe said to me. "You thought you'd get tough with the Universe, didn't you, and I bet it didn't work, did it?"

"Stooge is right," I said. "Believe me, Lupe, I want to believe all that guff about the Universe watching my back and looking out for my best interests. I really do. I've tried. But it doesn't work for me."

"You misunderstand me," she said. "I didn't mean stooge as in someone who always becomes the butt of practical jokes."

"You don't?"

"I mean stooge as in one of the Three Stooges. Someone who, no matter how hard he tries, always looks silly in the end."

"A comedy ensemble from the 1940's," Lupe explained to Claudia who had looked up from her phone with a furrowed brow and a sideways glance at me. You do the translation.

I mused on her words because if you remember the recent post mentioned above, I gave it my best in Ocean Isle but my best just wasn't good enough. If you missed the post, you can find it by searching The Circular Journey for A Day of Reckoning.

"The Universe has been watching over you all your life," Lupe said.

"She's done a poor job of it," I said.

"Are you completely looney?" she said. "Forget that, not a question. Of course, you're looney. Looney to the eyebrows, if I remember the full diagnosis.

"Lupe!" I said. "Rally around you, little geezer. You're supposed to be on my side."

"Look, Genome, you're not a bad guy. I'd say most people like you, just in small doses, right Claudia?"

Claudia didn't respond. Apparently, something big was trending on TikTok.

"That's right," Lupe continued. "You've had a fantastic life. You have wonderful stories that people love to hear. Even Claudia and I love to hear your stories, and we're the last people you'd expect to appreciate your antics."

Claudia looked up from her phone and looked directly at me with a crooked smile and nodded at me. It was a tiny nod. Barely perceptible but I got the message.

I was having a hard time taking it all in. I've heard about the limited bandwidth the mind has for processing information but this was information overload on a massive scale.

"You see, all those wonderful things that happened to you weren't the results of your plans or your actions. No, they occurred serendipitously."

"Stop right there," I said. "I know what you're going to say. I've said it myself when trying to convince myself that there's hope in the future. But believe me, you little half-measure, it's all random, accidents. Nothing more."

"You don't know what I'm going to say," she said. "Consider the earwig on the lanai this morning."

"How do you know about the earwig?" I said.

"What's an earwig?" said Claudia, finally a part of the conversation.

"Why did that earwig live to tell the story?" asked Lupe.

"Because I chose to let it live another day. Live and let live is my motto."

"I'll bet that earwig is telling its buddies the story right now. The friends are probably saying, You should be grateful that the Universe is looking out for you today. But the earwig is objecting. It's not the Universe, he's saying. "It's just random accidental events. I was lucky that's all."

"Now, I ask you," she said to me. "Was it just an accident that the earwig is still alive?"

"No," I said. "He survived because I decided to let him go. It was an intentional gift of kindness."

Lupe didn't respond right away. She watched my face in silence giving her words time to sink in for full effect. At least, that's my take on it. You may see it differently.

"Here's the deal, Genome. Consciousness. There's only one. It's Universal. The Universe desires physical experience. If you want my opinion, our brains are tuned into one or more channels where we get subtle suggestions and a little nudging. It's like tuning a radio."

"It's a box where people listen to music and talk shows," she said to Claudia.

"I know what a radio is," said Claudia.

"Bottom line," said Lupe. "The Universe has been looking out for you since you were fetal." Then as an afterthought, she added, "There's a chance you may still be."

"Fetal?" I said. "Are you calling me fetal?"

"Did I say that out loud?" she said.

"Fetal?" I said again because I didn't fully understand her point and was trying to hide the fact by appearing to be offended. Don't knock it. It may be a new concept to you but it seems to work for many.

"You'd think," Lupe said to Claudia, "that just having Ms. Wonder in your life would be enough to convince a person that they've been given a special ride."

Claudia put the phone down. She looked directly into my eyes as if to avoid any chance of misunderstanding. Then she nodded knowingly and that nod spoke volumes.

Prince of Happiness

The key to happiness is found in fantasy. I'm not saying that it's the only key to happiness. There may be others. I'm sure there are. I just haven't found them.

Life is chaotic and messy and it never unfolds the way we expect. Fantasy, on the other hand, can be anything we want it to be. Fantasy is predictable and that makes it immensely satisfying.

The kind of fantasy I'm talking about is the kind you create for yourself. It's a fact of human psychology that we all tell ourselves stories about our lives. The stories we tell become the lives we live. That idea is the reality behind the notion that we create our future. 

You see, we don't always clearly see the situations we're involved in. We make mistakes in that regard and see circumstances in ways different than any other sane person would. But it doesn't matter in the long run because whatever we choose to believe becomes our reality.

Intentional, meaningful fantasy can make the world a happier place by simply changing our view. That's why I write The Circular Journey. I create a fantasy that explains and overcomes the nonsense in my life. I accept the fantasy because it makes more sense to me and seems more real than so-called physical reality.

If you aren't quite convinced of the truth of my argument, consider the following:

For decades I've loved the song, Rasberry Beret by Prince. I could never be unhappy hearing it. The curious thing is that I didn't know the lyrics, only a few words and short phrases. I decided to learn the lyrics so I could sing along.

What a surprise! I didn't like the lyrics; they didn't agree with my scruples. Wicked? I stopped listening to the song. I felt like a man chasing rainbows with wild abandon until the rainbow turned around and bit me on the leg. My spirit was broken, as broken as the Ten Commandments.

Then one day, during my routine physical therapy, the song began playing on Spotify. I was so focused on the therapy, that I began singing and feeling joyful before I realized what I was listening to.

From that day forward, I was able to enjoy the song again by simply choosing to ignore the lyrics.

Eureca! The principle of displacement! 

Not the displacement that Archimedes was so fond of, but Eureka just the same. Displacing one value with another made me as happy as damn it! I don't know what that means either, I just like saying it.

What's it all about, Genome? I've heard it said, and I believe it, that if you don't like the way your day is going, you can change it. You can start your day over as many times as you like.

Happiness doesn't just happen to us. We must choose to be happy and demand nothing less. Then we must keep on choosing it every day.

Sad Songs Say So Much

To combat the familiar feeling that I take up space better used for other purposes, I decided to invite a few friends over to listen to the new Spotify playlist I created for my birthday.

"Good for you," said James. "Music is the medicine that cures whatever ails you."

When we were settled on the lanai, each with a favorite tissue restorer in his hands, I explained that my birthday playlist contained songs guaranteed to cheer me up when I'm blue.

"We'll start," I said, "with Whitney Houston and I Will Always Love You."

"This song became the best-selling single of all time by a female solo artist," I said.

We all sang along with Whitney and when it ended, Jim said, "Did you know that song was written by Dolly Parton? She wrote it for Porter Wagoner when she left his TV show to pursue a solo career."

"It's a great song," said Dennis, "but a little sad, don't you think?"

"Some sad songs make me feel better," I said. "And let's don't jump the rails with side issues. I've got a lot of great music to play.

I pushed play and Billy Vera began singing the heart-breakingly beautiful What Did You Think.

"Oh, my Lord," said Dennis. "That's the most powerful song I've ever heard. Makes a grown man cry."

"Yeah, Genome, I thought these songs were supposed to lift your spirits."

"Well, they do lift mine," I said. "Even though I feel like crying when I hear this song, somehow, some way it makes me happy at the same time. I'm happy knowing that my life includes the kind of love that passeth all understanding, as the Big Book says, and I've recently found my life's purpose. Does that make sense?"

"Not at all," said Jim. "It's either a happy song or it isn't. And it's the Good Book, not the Big Book."

"Okay, okay" I said. "Stop judging and listen to Rita Coolidge singing Bird on a Wire."

"Oh man!," said James, "I love this song. Have you watched The Great?"

"I'm watching it now," said Dennis. "What a series, right? "The way Catherine struggled to give the signal for the coup."

"Right, said Jim. "You could see the heartbreak in her eyes because it would cost her the love of her life."

"Yeah," said James, "Elle Fanning nailed it!"

"No, no!," I said. "This has nothing to do with the television series and it's not about the Simone Istwa arrangement of the song. It's Rita Coolidge."

"It's Istwa," said James. "Istwa, not Itswa."

"I didn't say Itswa."

"Yes, you did," said Jim.

"Do you have a happy, upbeat song in this entire playlist?" said Dennis.

"Didn't say happy," said James. "He said they lift his mood."

"Yeah, well, I expected to have my mood lifted," said Dennis, "but so far..."

"Okay," I said. "I get it. But sometimes in life, we have to accept the loss of something we love for the greater good. Like Catherine the Great."

"You think so?" said Jim and it wasn't really a question.

"Fine," I said. "I give up. I don't care anymore. Do what you want, but I'm going to listen to Billy Joel singing, Keeping the Faith.

"Oh, man, I love Billy Joel," said James.

Instead of replying, I began singing along with Mr. Joel.

"If it seems like I've been lost in 'let's remember..."

Everyone joined me and our voices soared until we got the attention of the family next door.

"Then you should have known me much better..."

I heard voices coming from somewhere off-stage and I assumed the neighbors were joining it.

"Still I would not be here now if I never had the hunger,..."

The others stopped singing when the neighbors came to look over the fence but I continued to sing solo.

"Cause I never felt the desire
'Til their music set me on fire
And then I was saved, oh yeah"

And that," I said opening my eyes, "is the punchline that brings it all home: I’d never felt the desire 'til the music set me on fire, and that made all the difference."

"Genome," said Dennis, "do you have another of those mimosas lying around that someone isn't using?"

"I'll get that while you guys listen to Linda Rondstadt and Long, Long, Time," I said.

"Oh, my god!" said Jim. "You and your uplifting songs. That's got to be the saddest song ever written."

"Especially when Linda sings it," said Mumps. "She puts more sad notes in a song than the writers."

When I returned to the lanai, everyone was sitting quietly wearing deep-thought faces.

"Sssup?" I said and I meant it to imply What the hell?

"The invitation said an afternoon of uplifting music," James said.

Silence filled the early evening air. Darkness had fallen like a soft velvet curtain. The hibiscus blossoms had closed their eyes and their heads drooped in slumber. I wondered if hibiscus flowers dream. 

An owl hooted in the shadows. Small creatures of the night rustled in the undergrowth. Eventually, James said, "Let me tell you a story."

"Oh, good," I said, "I was hoping to hear stories when I planned this hullabaloo."

"Once upon a time, in my younger days," he said. "I had broken up with my girlfriend and was driving home one Sunday night. I knew that Linda was going to be on the Ed Sullivan Show that evening. 

 We had no Spotify or Apple Music back then. So I stopped at Charlie's Tavern in South Daisy, bought a beer, and asked Charlie if he could turn the Sullivan show on. I heard Linda sing Long, Long Time. I loved it but I cried all the way home."

"I understand," I said even though I really didn't. "But why are you telling me this story now?"

"Because we all want to hear our own sad songs but we don't want to hear someone else's."

"Say that again," I said.

"Think about it," he said.

"Anyone interested in one more song?" I said. "The last one is Sad Songs by Elton John." 

"Let's dedicate it to Jody," James said. "I wish he could have been here. He loved Sir Elton and he loved all the sad songs."

"Sad songs say so much," I said.

And so it went. The day had turned out nothing like I expected. In other words, the usual day in paradise. But listening to Elton John and thinking of Jody, I couldn't help but feel that it had turned out exactly as it should.

When Dimensions Collide

Be assured that I'm going to ignore the modern concept of eleven dimensions because it's all theoretical and because it has nothing to do with the Twilight Zone where I sometimes live.

The Twilight Zone was the subject (and the name) of a television series that began in the late 1950's. Rod Serling, the host of the show, described it like this: 

"There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call The Twilight Zone."

I don't always live in the fifth dimension mentioned above. Instead, I seem to slip into it occasionally, remain there for a bit, and then return to the usual four that define what is generally considered to be physical reality.

My mythical therapist (a real therapist who specializes in personal mythology) explained it as follows:

With the analog radios of yesterday, listening to a preferred station required manually tuning to the assigned frequency. Sometimes the station would drift and the broadcast would become mixed with another frequency. It's one way to understand how my tuning sometimes drifts and becomes mixed with another dimension.

Even when no action was taken to correct the situation, the preferred station (or dimension) would eventually drift back in tune all on it's own.

In the past, slipping into the Twilight Zone was a smooth and unremarkable transition. I became aware of the shift only when I began to experience augmented reality, a sort of middle ground between light and shadow. I had no control of the situation and could do nothing more than try to cope with the chaos and hope that my home dimension would drift back into tune.

That all changed last Tuesday morning. I woke to a bizarre reality and could only imagine that while I slept, my normal reality had been struck by a rogue dimension and that I was living in a world stuck between science and superstition. 

Judging from the wicked drama that resulted, the Twilight Zone must have rushed into my regular world like Lady McBeth intent on hearing the latest gossip from the guest room. 

I'm fairly certain that it was Shakespeare who said that just as you're feeling on top of the world with a bluebird on your shoulder, Fate is around the next corner, placing banana skins around the storm drain for the amusement of sewer harpies.

The Bard described it well. The collision of dimensions generated shock waves in my world that made it impossible to function. My vision was blurred and I was unstable trying to walk or even stand. It was very much like the earthquake I experienced in San Francisco while attending the Sybase conference.

After a few hours, things began to stabilize although there were at least two aftershocks over the next couple of days. It seems that my world has settled down for the most part but I fear that some parts of my world are forever changed.

It makes me wonder if my life will ever get back to what I once knew. No, that's not true. The truth is I'm convinced that life will never be the same. I don't like to admit it because I get some unusual looks from people when they hear me say it. But you know that I can't hide anything from you, my loyal public.

If you want the complete truth, I'm reserving the right to contact my agent back in Atlantis much earlier than planned. But I promise to give you advance notice before I go away. 

Until then, remember to sing in the sunshine as often as possible and laugh every day, without fail. It's all part of fierce living and without that, well let's not talk about that right now. Just sing in the sunshine and laugh every day. That's enough.

Beignet and His Magic Sunglasses

The remnant of tropical storm Jazz was full upon us as I drove through Duke Forest on my way to an appointment at the university. The trees tossed their heads and waved their arms in a frantic frenzy, if frenzy is the word, exactly the way Shaka Khan used to do on Top of the Charts.

Leaves swirled across the road in great profusion. Blustery is the way I would describe the morning, yes, blustery is the mot juste. Not a small army of squirrels could have been camouflaged in those leaves. I drove slowly.

As the pre-frontal cortex navigated the storm-strewn road, Princess Amy, that almond-eyed little gargoyle, was seated at a corner table in the darkened recesses of my mind. She was seated, not too  near the band, of course, where she could keep watch for danger. 

She reminded me that Fox lurked out there somewhere waiting to spring one of his practical jokes. I suspected it would come in the form of a broken limb falling across my path but Amy wasn't so sure. Never know what to expect from Fox was her opinion. 

Amy seemed to overlook the bigger issue, which was that something just as wild and far more dangerous than Fox was out here in this forest. That wild and dangerous thing was me of course.

Most days when Amy is worked up I practice my training as a qigong coach to relieve some of the pressure and keep Amy calm. Take a deep breath I tell her. But today I was in full agreement that the weather forecast was gloomy and full of v-shaped depressions. I speak of the emotional weather. Gale force winds with thunderstorms possible are about how it was lining up.

Duke Integrative Medicine Library

Then I arrived at the Center for Integrative Medicine and entered the library, a work of art in wood, steel, glass, and stone. My body sat in a chair near the windows and waited there for a clinical study coordinator to call for me. 

My mind was immersed in a wonderful, magical experience that had calmed my frantic mind as soon as I walked through the door. Muted light from an overcast sky and the soft notes of a Native American flute enveloped me, the sound of the flute barely audible above the soothing sound of falling water coming from somewhere deep inside the building. 

It was a tranquil refuge from the storm.

My coordinator came into the room with a stack of paperwork and even that didn't faze me. I wasn't ready to quote Ben the Cat when he puts on his magic sunglasses--"The sun is shining. The sky is bright. Birds are singing. Everything's alright." No, I wasn't feeling that good but I did have a sense that although Fox still lurked, I was in a safe place for the time being.

Ben the Cat

Elizabeth, the coordinator, talked to me about the clinical study we'd just completed together, and her voice was soft and strangely alluring. I could have listened to her talk all afternoon. Eventually, the paperwork was complete and Elizabeth offered to give me a tour of the building. 

Of course, we actually looked at all the rooms, even the "practice" rooms where I've already meditated, qigong-ed, and yoga-ed. Then we visited one I didn't know about.

The Quite Room is where acupuncture and massage patients wait to be called for their therapy sessions. It's large and open, two-stories tall with a large skylight that allows natural light to flood the floor space. 

A bamboo forest grows on the floor of the room. Not in pots, mind you. Pots I could understand but these plants grow right out of the floor, which is covered in round, dark gray stones. 

One wall of the room is formed by a sheet of water that falls from the craggy heights of the ceiling and creates a curtain separating the Quiet Room from the administration offices on the other side. This is the source of the sound of splashing water I heard from the library.

The Quiet Room

Elizabeth pointed out a toy panda, sitting amidst the bamboo shoots in the far end of the room. She told me, and I would have believed anything she told me, that no one in Integrative Medicine is sure who moves the panda nor exactly when it's moved, but it's in a new location every morning--even on the weekends. 

This news intrigued me strangely. I felt the need to get to the bottom of this. Do you feel it too? I mean this could be one of those overlooked phenomena that hold the key to fitting Newtonian physics with the quantum variety. I'll look into it and report back.

Well, everything is impermanent, the Buddha used to say, which is one of those annoying announcements, of course, and is the reason why all right-thinking people want to avoid his company. And so was my visit to the Integrative Medicine Center impermanent. I had to leave. 

As I drove away, I was conscious that Princess Amy was much calmer than when I arrived. Her hand no longer hovered over the panic button. That's right, Amy, take it easy. I've got this.

Moonbeam Celebrations

Moonlight, calling to all unsleeping to come out and revel in its pearly luster, poured in the screened porch of Chatsford Hall. It had a magical glow. But to the Genome, much as he appreciates the beaming countenance of Sister Moon, it brought no cheer. 

The cypresses cast shadows across the lawns and gardens and white camellias peeked out of the dark shrubbery with their laughing gnome faces. Still, when I mindfully scanned my feelings, all I found were the emotions belonging to something that has been prepared for stuffing by a taxidermist.

Years of living life on life's terms and practicing Fierce Qigong have prepared yours truly for any catastrophe that comes his way. Like the Russian peasant who endures long, cold winters haunted by hungry wolves and empty vodka bottles, the soul has a hard protective coating. Left alone to his own devices, Genome takes on the appearance of Fate's spoiled darling.

But I ask you, with a week of no sleep and an overactive limbic system, can we wonder that moon shadows make no appeal? As I sat watching a scattering of clouds moving up from the south, a voice spoke to me from the north, saying, "Whatcha doin'?"

It was Sarah Lupe Louise sitting atop the table on the outdoor side of the porch screen. My gaze softened at the sight of her and I felt a soothing sense of relief because this young cat considers the Genome a source of perpetual goodness. You might say that she can't get enough of the Genome bouquet. 

Well, I don't have to tell you how effective is the medicine of the kind heart. It's the stuff to give the troops, if you want my opinion, just before they take the field to face the prowling forces of Midian. It makes all the difference.

"Can't sleep," I said.

"Too bad," she said.

"Want to feed me?" she said doing that little figure eight dance of hers.

"Too early," I said but somehow it didn't seem enough in the way of explanation. "It's only 3:00 AM," I added.

"Oh," she said, and calmly accepting my decision, she sat and began inspecting a paw.

Still looking for a solution to remedy the circumstances that I found so unsettling, I said, "I just don't know what to do."

"Nothing for you to do," she said.

"You think not?"

"Not in charge," she said. 

"No," I said, "I guess I'm not in charge, am I?"

"Jungle cat in the sky," she said.

"In charge you mean," I said, and then, still musing, I asked, "So what's it all about? Why do we bother?"

"Well," she said, "I do my stuff because I'm a cat."

"I see," I said, "You do what you do because it's what you were meant to do. Like dancing. You're a good dancer."

"Thank you," she said, "I also kill voles."

"Let's keep this conversation out of the gutter, shall we?" I said.

"You do human things pretty good," she said.

Something in her words, if they were words, seemed to go to the heart of the matter. I ratcheted up the musing to full-scale pre-frontal cortex stuff and I noticed that the inside feelings were a lot more agreeable.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"I could eat," she said and began doing a passable Electric Slide. 

I entered the kitchen and selected a fine quality New Zealand venison and after bunging the medium dose for the average cat into a bowl, I walked into the garden to give her an early morning snack. 

Life comes hard and fast for cats and for people, maybe even a little harder for cats, and it occurs to me that cats, like people, have little real value when they're sleeping among the stars. So why wait? Might as well celebrate today and what better way to do that than by helping someone else celebrate?

Power Principles

"It's like this," I said, explaining to Ms. Wonder why I was having trouble keeping abreast of her photography exhibits.

"It's the sewer harpies that I've mentioned before. They're agents of pure evil and they seem to be getting stronger. I'm thinking that it has something to do with my giving up the reselling business."

Princess Amy

She closed her eyes, lifted her chin a couple of inches, and held up a hand, palm open, facing me as if to ward off any negative influence coming from my direction.

"If you're yammering about soul vessels, Celtic goddesses, and Charlie Asher, just stop now. Your agents of evil are nothing more than Princess Amy, well actually Amy is just another word for your dysfunctional limbic system but I can work with that."

"Is yammering the appropriate word, Poopsie, considering my struggle to keep my head above the clouds?"

 "But," she continued, "and listen carefully because what follows is the most important part. You must get your head around this--there are no sewer harpies."

"Mabd is the worst of them," I said. "I can deal with Macha and Nemain, but Mabd--pure evil."

"Amy is making all this stuff up," she went on as though I'd said nothing. "It's all simply natural, random, happenings that Amy misinterprets as supernatural."

"I've heard all that before," I said. "I've considered it, even believed it. Then again, I'm not sure that I ever really believed it; rather I accepted it as good enough to be getting on with. As I've mentioned several times, it's not so much the events that prove an evil intent as much as the frequency of their popping up. Like the demon king in a Thai water opera."

Once more, the rolling eyes, the lifted chin, a deep breath this time, and then the open palm. Reminds me of Arnold Schwarzenegger and his famous line from the film Terminator 2: Talk to the hand."

"Let's get grounded, shall we?" asked the Wonder. She wasn't suggesting anything, she was getting down to business and I realized that if I knew what was good for me, I'd pay close attention.

"The solutions," she said, "are, first of all, to look for humor in the situations that trouble you. You're on target with The Circular Journey. All that's needed there is a bit more regularity. Blogging every day is my suggestion."

"Wise counsel, Wonder," I said, "I'll post every day."

"You're also doing the right thing by relying on music to cheer you. But most of your listening is done in your car when running errands. Why not listen more at home?"

"Excellent observation," I said and I meant it. This little nugget of wisdom had lit a fire under me. "Continuous music," I said.

"And finally," she said, "socializing. You're falling down on the amount of time you spend with others. You rarely go to meetings and your social gatherings are limited to Native Grounds Cafe with Lupe on weekdays and Island Irv on Sunday mornings."

The meetings she mentioned, if you're new here, are recovery program meetings for those who abused alcohol and other substances like the white powder that we used to sprinkle in our hemp doobies. There are different programs for the two but I combine them into one. More convenient, fewer meetings."

"There are no lunch-hour meetings here in Waterford," I said, "so with the Cape Fear bridge closed, I'll be going to Southport for meetings. And just FYI, there are no recovery programs for coffee consumption so I'll continue to abuse caffeine."

"Oh," she said as if suddenly receiving a jolt of information from the Akashic Record, "exercise is one of the most important practices. You have a good workout program. You're just not consistent. Meditation is part of your morning outing in Brunswick Forest but you're not any more consistent there than you've been in the other routines. Make it a top priority."

"I call those activities my Power Principles," I said. "It's something I picked up from SuperBetter."

"It's not so very important what you call them," she said, "as long as you practice them regularly."

I reeled! Was it possible that after all these years, that wonderful brain of hers had come undone? Not important what I call them?  I watched her lips move as she continued to speak but I heard no sound. 

My mind had jumped the rails and was mired in the drainage ditch of my limbic pathways, not unlike the spoiler I made as a young teen when I, bike riding with my hands on my head, tried to make the turn onto Old Thatcher Road using body English only. Well, I don't need to tell you how that day turned out.

I couldn't wait to take the subject up with Lupe in our next Native Grounds meet-up. Lupe's counsel is the next best thing to Wonder's mysterious ways and it's no secret why. She cubbed under the Wonder after all. Stay tuned to The Circular Journey and I'll update you on developments as they occur.

Something tells me that we're onto something big.

Cat Zen

"Poopsie," I said, and if I was taking liberties with the familiar form, what of it? I was in a stir and needed soothing. And that soothing I needed immediately. Nothing like that cat in the adage stuff--the one that let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'

"Poopsie," I said, "it's another morning. Can you believe it? Consider the odds, I mean. Wouldn't you think that any day now we should begin without a morning. Otherwise, it's just one damn thing after another. Whatever are we to do?"

"Speaking for me," she said, "I'm on my way into the office and you, if you will follow my suggestion, will complete some of the things on that list I gave you."

"Forget lists," I said, "this is no time to be thinking of lists. Hell's foundations are shaking."

She gave me a look, not thoroughly compassionate but not totally lacking either. Then she said, "What are you talking about?"

"Ms. Wonder," I said, with some topspin, "have you not been paying attention? The world has jumped the rails. We're off the path. Last week, if it could go wrong, it did and now the same is happening this week. Consider Uma for example. She disappears."

"She has found a new hiding place that we don't know about," she said with a sanguine smile, "but she hasn't disappeared into thin air."

"I beg your pardon," I said. "Thin air is exactly what she has disappeared into. She takes a few steps toward the hallway each morning and then poof--gone."

"Not poof--gone," she said.

"Yes, poof--gone," I said.

We stood there for a moment or two, giving each other the eye and sizing each other up. You know how it is when two strong personalities are in close juxtaposition if that's the word. The atmosphere can sometimes get thick.

"Maybe you should try meditating, like Eddy here," she said reaching to stroke the back of the cat who sat on the toilet seat staring into the trash can, as he does every morning.

"I meditate!" I said. "I teach others to meditate too. That's what I do. I immerse myself in meditation."

"Yes, but Eddy meditates first thing every morning right after breakfast."

"He's just lethargic from eating so much food," I said.

"He contemplates the void," she said still stroking the back of that cat.

"Are you implying that the trash can and the void are the same?" I asked.

"Think about it," she said. "Everything that goes into the trash can is considered to be worthless--it amounts to nothing. No matter how much you put in, the contents are always worthless. So the trash can in that respect represents nothing. Then when you consider that everything is eventually used up or loses its value and is thrown away, you realize that everything ends up in the trash. Everything becomes nothing. The trash can, like the void, represents everything and nothing."

I was non-plussed. Wouldn't you have been in the same situation? I mused on this observation for a long moment. This Poopsie Wonder, as I've always said, and as you have certainly found by reading these missives, this Ms. Wonder is amazing. She knows all.

"Do you suppose that Eddy actually contemplates the void intentionally?" I said.

"Probably not," she said, "but do we actually have to be aware that we are meditating?"

"Actually, the essence of meditation of to be aware of nothing but existence," I said.

"Well, there you go then," she said.

"Truth!" I said. And I immediately trained the focus of my attention on trash cans and trash cans are what I've contemplated ever since. Nothing but trash cans. I can honestly say my life has gotten better because of it. No more wasted time focusing on goals and bucket lists and other such nonsense.

Napoleon or Not

I awoke with that feeling that sometimes comes early in the morning that you need urgent care, or you need to get to Urgent Care in about 3 seconds. I thought I'd swallowed a migration of butterflies but was relieved to discover that it was only Ben's tail. You're familiar with Ben, of course, the Ragga-muffin cat, properly referred to as Beignet. 

As soon as I could breathe again, I bounded out of bed, and seeing a cloud of steam and a small river coming from the salle de bains, I knew Ms Wonder must be within. I desired her thoughts on a subject of interest and so I waded into the stream. A raft of ducks appeared out of the mist and swam out the door and into the bedroom.

Beignet Lafayette

"Poopsie?" I said, directing my voice toward the sound of rushing water.

The torrent of water stopped abruptly and presently a Venus-like form appeared. Two emerald-green eyes gave me a look that made me think that my pajama top and bottom were mismatched but no, a quick glance in the mirror told me that the corn-flower blue pants and the heliotrope t-shirt were parfait.

"What?" I said.

"Why are you wearing Abbie on your shoulder?" she said and I'm blowed if she didn't describe the situation perfectly. I recognized the question, however, as diversionary, and I did not intend to be distracted. I pressed on.

Abbie (Abracadabra) Hoffman

"Oh, it seemed like a good idea at the time," I said lifting the little ninja from my shoulder and placing him on the floor. "If you have a moment, I have something to run up your flag pole."

"Run it," she said in that way she has of moving the story forward.

"Right," I said. "Here it is then, without preamble, having considered this and that, I believe I should stop talking about Napoleon."

Her right hand, which had been meditatively soaping a left arm, stopped abruptly as though the spring had unwound. She made a moue, if it is a moue, where she pushed the lips out and then pulled them back in again.

"I don't get it," she said.

"Simply," I said. "I keep mentioning Napoleon in my blog posts and I think it may be having a disruptive effect on the education of French school children."

"Hold on," she said, "let me get this straight. You've been making negative comments about Napoleon?"

"Of course not," I said. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Some people think of him as a little tyrant," she said.

"Not at all," I said. "An emperor for the little people in my opinion."

 "So you simply reference him in blog posts, perhaps quoting him or mentioning some of his achievements?"

"Well," I said, "I may have mentioned his retreat from the Russian front in a contingency sleigh or perhaps the burning of the French fleet in the port of Cairo but only in the most tasteful and respectful way, you can be sure."

"So what's the problem?" she said.

"Well, it's like this," I said. "I've noticed that whenever I mention Napoleon, that blog post gets a lot of hits in France. I've tried to reconcile this phenomenon and all I've come up with is that French kids are researching their country's history in school and they Google themselves to my blog where I'm sure they're entertained for hours but, unfortunately for them, they gain no useful information for their reports."

"Oh," she said, applying loofah to the left elbow, "I see what you mean."

"I thought you would," I said.

"I think you'd best leave off with Napoleon," she said.

"But only in my blog posts," I said. "I shall continue to follow his example in my plans for world domination."

"Exactly," she said.

"Thank you, Poopsie," I said. I left her soaking in the tub and I went looking for those ducks.

Sagi M'Tesi

Hard Like Water

I found her at the cafe table where I'd left her only minutes before.

"Lupe," I said. "I'm so glad you haven't left."

And I was too. You see, we'd finished that conversation which is now the gist of the last post and I'd shared my advice about wooden nickles and ankled away. Then I remembered the real reason I'd come looking for her in the first place.

Adorable Vectors by Vecteezy

"Still here," she said, "but If you have a long story, it will have to wait until our next appointment. I'm meeting friends in the Castle Street Arts District to see Wicked at the Tivoli."

"You'll have time for me, you young geezer," I said. The remark was made in the warmest, most loving way of course.

"Walk and talk," she said getting up from the cafe table and heading uptown.

"What's happening on Castle Street?" I asked.

"No time for that now," she said. "You'll have to wait for tomorrow's Star News and read about it there."

"Big stuff," I said and was about to muse on it but she came to an abrupt stop, looked me in the eye, and said, "Talk."

"Ah, right," I said. "I need some advice about changes I want to make in my life. I've been struggling..."

"I know," she said.

"I practice all my power principles and yet I seem to make no progress. I'm beginning to feel that I'm stuck in some wormhole or other. Or maybe I've crossed over the horizon boundary of a black hole or whatnot."

"Well, I know how much you like to compare your life to quantum fields," she said, "but you're wasting subspace energy looking there. Your problem is that you've forgotten Fierce Qigong."

"Mankiller!" I said coming to an abrupt stop. You've been around these parts long enough to know that when I use this former shrimp's surname I mean business and I want it to show.

"Never do I forget Fierce Qigong. It's my raison d'ette."

She came to an abrupt stop. It was looking like a big day for abrupt stops. She turned around and took two slow steps toward me. I knew she meant business.

"What is the foundation of Fierce Qigong?" she asked.

It was a rhetorical question, of course, but I had a strange feeling that we were about to get somewhere and I thought it best to play along.

"Fierce Qigong is founded on taiji chuan," I said.

"Chen style," she said.

"To be sure," I said.

"And what is the principal difference between taiji chuan and kung fu?" she said. "Or should I say, wushu?"

"Wushu or even sip pal gi in case any of my Korean masters hear of this conversation." 

"Genome! Put a sock in it! Back to the question; what's the difference between taiji and wushu?"

Well, checkmate, I thought. She'd done it again and with only two questions. Forget Sherlock Holmes, forget Jeeves; when this Lupe Louise Mankiller accepts an assignment her mysterious something works wonders.

"The difference is soft hands," I said. "Hands like water--soft and yielding and yet unstoppable; cutting through stone."

"Taking a relaxed approach," she said. "Never losing inner harmony. Performing the next best thing without striving and without planning the outcome."

"That's what I haven't been doing," I said.

"Rem acu tetigisti," she said.

"Fierce Qigong," I said. And I meant it too.